Olympic Fever
by screaminheathen69
Summary: The Olympics come to Atlantis. Sort of.


Summary: The Olympics come to Atlantis. Sort of.

Notes: Started writing this during the Olympics. Real life got in the way for a while, but I finally decided to finish it. I swear I'll get back to my in progress stories one of these days. Honest!

Disclaimer: Were it mine, it wouldn't be getting canceled after only five seasons. Stupid butt-munches.

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OLYMPIC FEVER

By screaminheathen69

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Richard Woolsey was exasperated.

Well, let's face it; Richard Woolsey was _always_ exasperated. Born that way, actually. Went right along with that whole general clueless thing he had going on. (The general concensus is that the poor man is permanently constipated, hence the crappy attitude. Heh, just saw the pun there...)

But, to be fair, he's not a bad guy.

No, seriously, I mean it!

He has, deep down, the ability to do the right thing. (_Really_ deep down. Somewhere around his pinky-toe. The left one.) Every once in a while. If he's forced to.

He's just... clueless. And easily exasperated. And gullible. And...

Ahem. I digress.

Quit laughing!

Now, where was I... Oh, right. Woolsey. Exasperated. You see, somebody (pretty sure it was Major Marks, but nobody's tellin') had snuck in a batch of (bootleg) dvd's with pretty much every event of the 2008 Olympics on 'em.

And now... Well, now, the entire expedition had Olympic Fever. Nothing was getting done. Work had ground to a halt. Everyone was gathered around every available screen watching, you guessed it, the Olympics. Seventeen days worth of Olympics. Including the opening and closing ceremonies. Even Ronon had been impressed at the sight of two thousand and eight drummers in perfect synchronization. Not to mention two thousand and eight Tai Chi masters. (Admit it, you watched it and thought it was wicked cool too. Go ahead. See, don'tcha feel better now?)

There had even been a few fights. National pride, and all that. Jennifer Keller was less than pleased. Rodney had stuck an ice pack on his black eye and pouted for two days. Radek, on the other hand, wore quite the smug grin.

The three Jamaican members of the expedition threw a two-day-long party when Usain Bolt set his world records and collected his gold medals. It was rather memorable. Or would have been, if anybody could've remembered it. Radek's homemade brew packed quite the punch. It was a helluva party. Memory loss aside, with hangovers like that, it _had _to be a great party, right?

Which, of course, led to even less work getting done. And, believe it or not, more exasperatedness (it's a word!) on the part of our beloved (okay, even _I_ couldn't keep a straight face when I wrote that one) Mr. Woolsey.

After Michael Phelps' eighth gold medal, a few people (twenty, maybe thirty, but who's counting?) decided it would be fun to go jump in the ocean to see who the fastest swimmer was. Once again, Jennifer was less than pleased, as a few of those people (twenty or thirty, but who's counting?) wound up incredibly sick.

Swimming. Middle of winter. Go figure.

And, hey, guess what! More of the less work being done, leading to, you guessed it, more exasperatedness. (I _think _that's a word. Honest. Where the Hell's my dictionary? _Exasperatedness... _Ah, sonuvabitch... Screw it, I'm using it anyway. It's a perfectly good word. So there.)

And now, much to Woolsey's dismay, there was a petition being passed around to create a mountain bike trail in the city. The logic being, of course, if it's good enough to be in the Olympics, it's good enough to be in Atlantis.

John thought it was logical, anyway. Him and a whole bunch of the marines. And Major Marks, who was pretty sure he could figure out a way to sneak a batch of the requisite mountain bikes into the next shipment of goodies on the _Daedalus. _Colonel Caldwell had even agreed to, shall we say, overlook them. Which might be a bit hard to explain, since John was trying to come up with at least thirty.

Woolsey was having nightmares of the infirmary full of bikers with busted arms, legs and what-not, and the paperwork that went along with it. Now, keep in mind, Richard Woolsey loves his paperwork, but _this _particular nightmare scared him worse than the recurring one he had about the Wraith.

The huge bruise he was sporting on his noggin wasn't helping his mood any, either. After all, getting run over by a marine captain doing a gymnastic tumbling routine in the middle of the hallway wasn't exactly part of the job description.

He was seriously considering begging Samantha Carter to come back to Atlantis so he could escape all of the insanity.

I mean, really, there's only just so much an easily exasperated, slightly constipated guy can take, right?

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_'To thee no star be dark...'_


End file.
